


open doors

by agaave



Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood Trauma, First Crush, M/M, Yearning, actually every fauldren fic should be tagged with yearning, fauldren is gay and repressed, gun clicky noise at fauldren's parents i can and Will shoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23156428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaave/pseuds/agaave
Summary: Fauldren's earliest memory was of his father.He had been three years old, taken to his father's study and sat in a hard wooden chair that was much too big for him. He remembered feeling a swelling of pride, because he was three and now old enough to enter the room and accompany his father in important matters.The chair had been too low for him to see much of the desk, and he'd tucked his feet up under himself, getting to his knees to see the neatly organized papers spread in front of him.And his father's face had closed off."Sit," he'd said, "and don't make yourself unseemly. A duke never kneels, except for a king."
Relationships: Capella/Fauldren (original characters)
Kudos: 1





	open doors

Fauldren's earliest memory was of his father.

He had been three years old, taken to his father's study and sat in a hard wooden chair that was much too big for him. He remembered feeling a swelling of pride, because he was three and now old enough to enter the room and accompany his father in important matters.

The chair had been too low for him to see much of the desk, and he'd tucked his feet up under himself, getting to his knees to see the neatly organized papers spread in front of him.

And his father's face had closed off.

"Sit," he'd said, "and don't make yourself unseemly. A duke never kneels, except for a king." 

That had been the first lesson.

There were more, of course. Don't run. Don't hop or skip. Keep your clothes and face clean. Speak clearly, and don't mumble. At dinner, eat what you're given, and take small bites. The servants are to be given orders and not friendship. 

As he grew, the commands issued became less frequent. But that didn't mean that he had any fewer rules to obey. They had been etched in stone generations before he'd been born. Breaking them was unthinkable. 

-

By the time Fauldren turned twelve, he understood that the _rules_ had been the precursor to _responsibility._ There was a minor celebration to be held on the first of the next month, his father had told him. He would be in charge of managing the catering. 

The gala had arrived. The feast had been perfect. Fauldren had been summoned to his father's study after, and waited expectantly for praise. A job well done. 

"The Duke of the West is visiting in two weeks," his father had said instead. "I expect our reception to be flawless." 

"Yes, sir."

-

At thirteen, Fauldren had found a book in the library. He'd stolen an hour for himself, one lone hour of peace to read and distract himself from everything waiting outside. The book itself had been an illustrated collection of fairy tales, slightly faded and clearly well-loved.

Fauldren didn't know who might have read it to that extent. Certainly, no one had ever read it to _him._ Fauldren had been in the middle of the third story when he'd heard someone calling his name. It had been about a handsome young duke who had gone adventuring from place to place, seeing the world and vanquishing the Shade.

Fauldren's only thought, as he shelved the book and picked his way back through the aisles, was that the duke must not have been very good at handling his own affairs back home. 

-

He was sixteen years old when the rules changed again.

His family was entertaining again, the daughter and son of some important baron spending a week at the castle. They were quite alike in appearance; almond-shaped eyes set into heart-shaped faces, framed by thick, black hair. The dinner had been sedate, filled with average conversation, mild gossip. When their guests had excused themselves, Fauldren's father had leaned over.

"She was quite beautiful, wasn't she? You were looking at her all day."

"Yes," Fauldren said.

He didn't know why he didn't tell his father that he'd been looking at the son instead. 

-

When he was seventeen, the stablemaster had brought in a new apprentice. He had been fair-skinned, tall, and had a dusting of freckles across his nose. And he was well-built, strong enough to handle the heavy warhorses that Fauldren's father favored. 

His first introduction to the stablehand had been less than graceful. He'd come for an afternoon ride and found the stables empty of someone to help him. Fauldren had rounded a corner while looking and collided with an apparent brick wall, knocked backwards to the floor.

"Oh," the stablehand had laughed, "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there. Here."

His hand, when Fauldren grasped it, had been calloused and warm.

Fauldren had found an excuse to visit the stables more in a week than he ever had in his life. His mare needed attention, and, well, if the stablehand happened to be nearby, Fauldren was happy to requisition his time for a brief conversation.

On the eighth day, Fauldren couldn't find him.

On the tenth day, he saw him kissing one of the housemaids.

-

There were others, of course. One of the leatherworkers in their employ. Several of the soldiers posted in the guard. His languages tutor, who had a distracting lilt to his accent. 

He thought about them, in the fleeting moments he allowed himself to. He thought about being held. About being treated like one half of the pairs of lovers he saw in the street, with eyes for no one but each other. He stole glances and wondered what it would be like to be kissed. 

Sometimes, when he was particularly daring (or frustrated), he imagined being taken to bed. What it would be like to share a night with someone else, the breathy sound of his name on their lips. He liked the idea of someone bigger, stronger than him. Someone who would be protective, hold him gently, let him relinquish control. The thought was both terrifying and intoxicating, so far beyond anything he would ever have allowed in reality.

Being the future Duke of Evaran was an exercise in constant display. Fauldren had long since learned how to be controlled, how to avoid betraying himself around others. Not a hint of anything… illicit ever escaped the confines of his imagination. 

Sometimes, he thought it would be better if it did. 

His eighteenth year came with a new responsibility. He had always been asked to caretake the future, and now there was one more step: the preservation of his line. He was one of many generations, as he was reminded, and he had a duty to make sure that his wealth and title were passed on as he had received them. 

Except.

The idea of marrying a - a _woman -_

He tried to come to terms with it. Tried to imagine the rest of his life with some duchess or baroness or other titled woman on his arm. There were plenty of them expressing interest, now that he was of age. Being in love wouldn't matter. The best he could hope for was amiability. 

In public, he would have to love her. He would have to hold her, smile at her, give her a few chaste kisses. Romance her. 

In private, it would be better. It would be _worse._ They wouldn't have to be together privately, except. Except when they - 

When they -

He couldn't. Even the thought of it was beyond him. 

-

Sidestepping was easier, at first. He was bending the rules, not breaking them. He wasn't avoiding it _forever,_ just - just for now.

He was young. He had time. 

-

He had less time. Every year that passed was another year that increased the weight of his obligation. When he had been eighteen, his reticence was acceptable. Now, it was sparking rumors. 

_The Duke of Evaran is untouchable. I heard no one is good enough to satisfy him._

_He's rejected every one of his prospects so far. Every woman, no matter how titled or wealthy or beautiful. I heard he wants a princess. Royalty._

_He wants perfection._

-

Another letter had been delivered to his study. Fauldren didn't have to break the seal to know what it contained. Another missive from another person of some noble blood who had a daughter or niece or _someone -_

Fauldren rested his elbows on the desk, both hands dragging over his face. He gave a long, low exhalation, minutely relaxing the line of his shoulders. That was the third one in two months. He was running out of excuses. 

Fauldren put the letter aside for now. He was polite to a fault; he'd respond eventually. But right now he was running on three hours of sleep and he simply didn't trust himself not to write something frank. Or worse, truthful.

He entertained the thought for a moment, imagining what it would be like to finally put it to words. 

_To the duchess/marquise/countess/whoever you may be,_

_I possess no regrets in informing you that I cannot, nor will I ever, accept your suit. I will never accept any suit not posed to me by a man. Moreover, I cannot offer my life in marriage by someone I do not care for._

_Seeing as no one will ever fulfill these requirements, my intention is to live in peace for the rest of my days. You are welcome to inform anyone you may and have them cease in their attempts to wed me._

_Regards,  
Fauldren_

It was a nonsensical thing to imagine. The mere thought of frivolously writing it went against the rules he had so deeply ingrained. Even if he burned it immediately after, it would still have existed. Proof of a lapse in his judgement, no matter how private, that would shame the title. 

There was a knock at the door. One of the attendants - Ferland, if he remembered the name correctly. 

"Come in," Fauldren said, straightening in his seat. His countenance was measured as Ferland entered. He was the Duke Fauldren of Evaran, and the duke did not have wistful thoughts about impossible things. 

"There's a guest waiting for you. One of the possible hunters you were looking for."

Ah. Yes. His other pressing issue.

"Which one? There were several."

"His name is Capella, your grace." 

The name was unfamiliar to him. Not one of the more esteemed candidates, then. Fauldren might have refused, except he was desperate, and he didn't have time to waste hoping that someone with a reputation would come along.

"Alright," he said, pushing his chair back and starting towards the door. The letter was still there, waiting unopened for him on the desk. 

_I'll respond when I get back._


End file.
